Only this Moment
by Radioheaded
Summary: Wilson, in the aftermath of 4.16, Wilson's Heart
1. Chapter 1

Wilson understands pain, now. He understands its ability to end time; to erase the future and past and force him to exist only _now, _focused only on his distressed body. The pain scale, he decides, is useless. There is no quantifying this, this crippling pressure that turns his entire being into a pulse, throbbing, sending fire down his veins where blood should be. So he curls up; brings his knees to his chests and focuses on breathing, on staying alive. The muscles ache as he contracts, a dull, shallow pain that doesn't scratch the surface.

He's shaking; not sure why, but the movements are like pinpricks and he gasps quietly into sheets that smell of his own soap and _her, _that mix of almost too-heavy for day perfume and shampoo and her own natural scent and so he breathes in, pulls the molecules through his mouth and nose and tastes her, remembers his lips on her forehead, his hands in her hair, then down, exploring the long, lean lines that fit, so well, with him. It's then that he realizes there's a sound coming from him, an animal noise like a growl but lower, a sustained noise carried from his diaphragm. He claps a hand over his mouth but the noise fights through, echoes through the room, rebounds against the pale yellow walls she chose, and hits him again, vibrates through him and begins again.

It's not until he's sitting next to her that he realizes he's fallen asleep. She looks at him through her eyelashes and grins wickedly, presses against him and removes the space between until they're unified, moving together and Wilson thinks of how oddly fitting the situation is. Then he stops thinking, looks into her eyes and they writhe together until he wakes himself up by calling out her name.

When he's able to pry his eyes apart, he says it again, testing it, rolling it across his tongue.

"Amber."

He's not sure what time it is when he hears Cuddy's voice on his answering machine, but the general idea is for him to take some time off; to regroup, to collect himself, and then return to work. He lets his eyes shut and he listens to her deep, soothing voice. She'd be a good mother, he decides, drifting off to find Amber again.

The days run together and he's not sure how long it's been, but his clothes hang loose and his facial hair surpasses House's.

House.

The name comes to him unexpectedly, sneaks up on him and blue eyes and a helpless stare jump into his mind; he's back in the hospital, staring at another helpless body. He's not sure why, but he's mourning House too. He shakes the image away, rolls over to Amber's side of the bed and presses his face into the pillow, abandoning consciousness.

When Cuddy calls again, she sounds worried. She mentions a month; a measure of time now unfamiliar to Wilson. Yesterday was today is tomorrow. There isn't anything but now—doesn't she know that? Wilson shakes his head, reaches for the bureau, his hand returning with the last of her sleeping pills—to stop the thoughts, she had told him. She'd always had trouble sleeping; he'd awoken a few times to her walking quietly around the house.

He remembers the night he woke up to go the bathroom; upon returning he had noticed her absence, went quietly to the living room and saw her there, doing yoga in the moonlight. The pale white of the moon illuminated her hair, cast shadows and made her pale skin glow.

That was the night he whispered his love to her, when she finally fell asleep.

Sometimes, in the dreams, she turns into House. He's laying next to her on that bed, so carefully avoiding the cords of the machines that allow her to live, and she kisses him, tells him it's ok and he believes, for a second, before gasping against her lips. She slumps against him and when he opens his eyes, pulls back, House is in her place, looking up him, welcoming death with a trusting stare. House runs a hand across Wilson's lips, and the machines stop beeping. Wilson collapses into House's body, cries until he can't breathe and realizes hands are stroking his back; Amber is behind him. She asks if this feels better.

The hands carry him from illusion to reality. A finger runs down his arm, tracing a vein lightly. The finger is hard, calloused, and Wilson doesn't need to roll over to see that House lies next to him. Neither say anything, but when House reaches to grip his fingers, Wilson doesn't pull away. His hand is opened, his fingers splayed, the digits curled around the warmth of House's fingers. Together they fall away from the world, let their bodies relax, cease their quickened thoughts.

They wake together, limbs tangled, bodies pressed into one another, desperate for warmth, the need to touch. Wilson allows himself to be led to the bathroom, to be stripped, washed. He fights when House brings him to the mirror, turns away from his reflection. But House grips his wrists, turns him and he's greeted by the ghost of his old self; he's all angles; dark circles surround his eyes. He looks like he could be a cancer patient. Suddenly he's laughing, a great big noise that resonates through him until he's on the floor, gasping for breathe, wetness finding its way down his face, under his chin and down his neck. House is there, though, and arms encircle him until he runs out of energy. Wilson stands; House follows, props him against the sink and carefully lathers shaving cream on his face. With slow strokes, House moves a razor across Wilson's face, unearthing smooth skin beneath rough hair.

They move back to the bed, laying on their respective sides. Wilson breathes deeply, smells his and House's mingles scents and closes his eyes. The bed moves slightly; House sits, gets up to leave, but it stopped by Wilson's command:

"Stay."


	2. Chapter 2

House thinks he knows pain

House thinks he knows pain. Thinks he understands the ins and outs; the fierce, ever-fresh ripping from a limb he can't bear to part with. His companion was pain; it lived inside of him, wound him tight as a spring ready to release.

But _this_, this _feeling_ was something he'd never experienced before. It didn't happen right away; he'd woken up to nothing, having been filled to the brim with morphine—and then Cuddy was there, asking him to be there, praying the bottom had not fallen out on him as well. It hadn't, though when he blinked and affirmed the clarity of his mind, he wished it had. Then he wouldn't have been surrounded by Cuddy, encircled by soft skin, the gentle smell of hydrangeas and warm breath that blows over his ear, raising bumps on the skin of his neck. He closes his eyes once she backs away, preferring to be asleep.

But it doesn't come. He knows he should feel high, tired; he wants to drift away and he should be able to—but though his mind is sluggish, though he actively chases sleep, it eludes him. He settles for watching Cuddy sleep, curled like a child in a chair next to his bed, her unconscious fingers entwined with his own. Every once in while, she jerks a little, pulling his hand toward the edge of the bed. He strokes her hand, tracing the blue veins that wind underneath, winding in and out and around each other like sections of a braid.

His eyes are closed when a nurse comes in; he keeps still, hopes she'll check his vitals and leave, but the footfalls stop in the doorway. The room is too quiet and House's wonders if he's always breathed that loud. He's fidgety, can't stop moving, twitching. He gives up, opens his eyes and stares into the dark, hollow eyes of a man he used to know. The man he knew is gone; what remains is a broken shell, a man who has no use, no ineed/i for House anymore. A man, who, through his gaze, tells House that Amber's death lies squarely upon his shoulders—upon a body that can barely support its own weight. House opens his mouth, tries to say he's sorry, he's so, so, sorry but something's in his throat and he chokes on it, tries to swallow but it won't go down—and, oh, it aches and he's flushing now, heating up, veins opening, allowing the blood close to the surface, becoming vulnerable. Waiting for Wilson to take his best shot.

But nothing comes. Not a blow, not words. Just a gaze that hurts more than his leg could pound, more than his father could evoke. The look is endless; House wonders how long Wilson will stand there in front of him until he realizes the stare is coming from his own mind now; he projects the image of a man who left hours ago.

He's not listening to Cuddy's words, instead listening to the melodic quality of her dulcet tones; it's not until he's wheeled out of the hospital and put into a taxi that he realizes he's agreed to take some time off. To relax, recuperate. Gather the pieces of himself and try to reassemble.

He isn't sure he can do puzzles anymore.

The first day off he drinks himself into a stupor; throws up and falls off the couch. He lays there on the hard floor, somewhere between consciousness and sleep and whispers his sorrow to the ceiling. It doesn't reply.

After awhile he's able to roll over; sitting up comes slower, with an arm pressed into the leather of his couch, groaning as each muscle protests his movement. He's halfway up when a hand appears in front of his face, palm and fingers extended. The skin is cool to the touch but he's distracted by the fact that he's suddenly standing; his arm is over the shoulder of someone slight, narrow but strong. Blonde hair spills onto his shoulder and he's staring into familiar eyes.

"Why'd you call me?" She asks, releasing him from her grip. He falls onto the sofa and jerks awake, eyes blearily searching for her presence. He's alone.

He can't sleep; closing his eyes brings her back, grasping for him, desperately asking him to save her. But he can't save her, can't save himself anymore and so he counts the hours and minutes pointlessly, with nothing and no one to look forward to. He is only in the present, hanging on with self-preservation he was unaware he had.

He hears Cuddy's voice on the answering machine, soft, careful. Her voice is like a woman smoothing a blanket over her child: careful, fearful. She knows she's lost him yet she clings desperately, digging her fingernails into what used to be.

"….a month, House. Please call me." Then her voice is gone, replaced with a droning dial tone. She calls again the next day; he hears 'Wilson,' but the rest slips by him, as if the words were caught by a current, moving rapidly around him as he stands still, trying not to fall.

He's at Amber's apartment a half-hour later; the spare key is tucked in an envelope taped on top of the doorframe; he lets himself in and is greeted by a museum, an apartment stuck in a time continuum. A cereal box, some healthy, whole-wheat monstrosity House wouldn't consider eating lies open on the counter with a bowl nearby, as if, at any moment, the woman who purchased it would return and eat breakfast. Papers lay on the table, scattered slightly, and covered by a fine layer of dust.

Amber is preserved in the details.

House moves through the house, finds the bedroom and sees what once was Wilson asleep on the bed. He's thinner, has a ragged, almost wild look to him. But his eyes are close and House is grateful; he doesn't have to look into sorrow he caused just yet. Without thinking, he lies down next to Wilson, listens to the other man's breathing. The skin next to his is flushed, warm, and House strokes Wilson's arm gently, carefully.

Eyes flutter open and Wilson's body tenses, but he doesn't pull away. House takes Wilson's hand in his own and is allowed to stay there; they lie like that, listening to each other breathe, until slowly, they leave the world behind. House sits in his own kitchen, in an embrace. His instinct is to fight it off, to rid himself of the arms acting as shackles. But a voice stops him, whispers in his ear to take time, to take care. He's released, and finds himself alone.

When he wakes, House is tangles with Wilson. The other man's face presses into his shoulder, his legs parallel House's. It's too quiet, too peaceful and House is sure he isn't supposed to be here, doesn't deserve what he's asking and begins to sit up quietly, carefully. He's almost out of the bedroom when a single word, cracked with emotion, calls him back.

"Stay."


End file.
